


The Curse of Fyrien

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, Episode: s03e07 The Castle of Fyrien, Gen, Pining Merlin (Merlin), Spirits, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16224653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: When word of what Emrys has done to his castle reaches Beyond the Veil, Master Fyrien does not take it lightly. Unfortunately for all involved, he was always a better merchant than he was a sorcerer, and he may well be even worse at being a ghost.





	The Curse of Fyrien

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> I've slightly altered the episode timeline to suit, and that, I can confidently say, is the very least of my transgressions. In other words, please pardon my nonsense, and thanks to the fabulous Canon Fest Mods for keeping this thing rolling!

* * *

It's Wednesday again, but that's not the problem. It's Wednesday every day beyond the Veil, unless it's Friday, but Fyrien's found that most of his fellow shades don't believe Fridays really exist. So. 

"Good Wednesday," he says when one of the Dorocha-in-Training—he thinks it might be one of the Stonedown Gareths, but honestly it's difficult to tell at this point—rushes into his cave with a half-hearted wail. It knocks over his easel, dashing his latest greyscape to the ground, blunders into a wall, and coughs up a chilly vapour.

"G'wnsdy," it rasps then, reorienting itself so it's hovering right before his face, proceeds to announce—or screech, more like—that Fyrien's impregnable fortress, his legacy, his _precious_ life's work and, now that he's dead, chief reason he's not yet faded away into incorporeal, shrieking idiocy, has been destroyed. 

"What?" Fyrien exclaims, dropping his brush. "But…how? By whom?"

"Emrysss," the proto-spirit hisses, spraying hoarfrost all down his front. Before it leaves it does the same to his paint pots and all the canvases stacked near the cave entrance, apologising with a hoarse, "Practice's practice, eh, Fifi? Expect I'll see you around."

As soon as it's gone, Fyrien hastens to the back of his cave and starts rummaging through the caskets of goods he was buried with. In a way he's already damned, but he'll be doubly so if he lets this stand, and—dead or no—he still has favours he can call in, a few tricks up his shadowy sleeves.

* * *

"Rise and shine!" Merlin calls out, yanking the drapes aside.

Arthur makes a noise of protest, squinting up at him from his mound of pillows. "Can't you think of anything new to say?"

"What?" Merlin swallows. 

"Every morning it's the same thing."

"Oh, I'm sorry. How about…" Merlin blinks, the realisation coming on him in a full-body shiver, like a bucket of cold water's been sloshed down his back. It is the same thing every morning. The same thing _exactly,_ as he's sure he's lived this day before. 

"Yes?" Arthur lifts an eyebrow, and Merlin tries to remember what comes next.

"Um, how about: shake a leg? Up and at ’em? Let’s have you lazy daisy…? No, you don’t like any of them, do you? Okay, er…I’m just going to go before you decide to do something which—" 

And yes, here it comes, the cup whipped at Merlin's head, except this time he can't help but duck at the last instant and it smashes against the wall. Merlin flees into the antechamber. 

Pacing, he tells himself there's no need to panic, that perhaps he's just imagining things. After all, Arthur is often grumpy in the morning, and this isn't the first time he's thrown things. But the odd feeling remains, and Merlin finds himself mouthing Arthur's next words to himself before they are bellowed from the bedchamber.

"Pray tell me, Merlin, how am I meant to 'rise' with no breakfast? Not to mention 'shine' when you've neglected to bring any fresh water?"

"Shine refers to your wit, not your face, Sire," Merlin calls out, as calmly as he can. "And you're due to breakfast with your father today. Remember?"

By the muttered swearing that follows, Arthur clearly doesn't. Merlin closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. Now that he thinks about it, he's got a bad feeling about breakfast. Morgana's going to be there, too. She's going to sigh a lot and refuse his service, and when Uther asks her what's wrong she's going to give them some disturbing news. A dream she had, or…no, it's something to do with Gwen. 

Properly worried now, Merlin ducks back in to help Arthur dress in the old brown shirt and manky vest he somehow knows Arthur will insist on, ignoring the freshly laundered red shirt Merlin had laid out for him last night.

* * *

It is a long, unsettling day. Gwen's been kidnapped, Morgana's acting fishier than usual, Arthur's in a state, and Uther is being predictably callous about the whole thing.

Throughout, Merlin can't shake the odd sense that he's been here before, the agitation of "remembering" things just before they happen coupled with a growing dissonance as he starts reacting to that knowledge, anticipating Arthur's movements, switching up what he says just to see if he can get away with it.

To top it all off, Gaius is being singularly unhelpful.

"The future, you say?" Gaius pauses in his stirring, setting the rod aside, and looks over to where Merlin is pacing. "As in visions, like those you saw in the Crystal Cave? Because I think we can both agree nothing but—"

"No," Merlin cuts in, wanting to spare himself the lecture. "More like…like the day's already there, with all of us and everything that's happened." He plucks a book off a nearby shelf, opens it to a random page and covers it with his hand. "So this page here, if it were today, it's been like—" He slides his hand slowly down the text, top to bottom, then mimes not being able to turn the page. "Can't see tomorrow, don't know how it all ends, but I know I've read this bit before. Just in a general sense, at first. Details come back line by line, just before they happen."

"Is that so?" Gaius turns back to his workbench. "And what am I about to do now?" 

"Nearly mix up the labels for Uther's salve and Lady Brindlemane's eye potion. But you realise just in—" Merlin breaks off with a flourish of his hand as Gaius hastily swaps the labels round with a muttered curse.

He waits a moment, glaring at Gaius' back, then mouths along as he says, "Hmpf! Hardly proves anything. You were distracting me." 

Merlin tosses the book on the table and resumes his pacing. "I'm telling you, today at Gwen's cottage, I _knew_ about that scrap of cloth, even before I'd gone inside. Knew to look for it, I mean, as soon as I saw that poker. And when Arthur clapped it over his face, I knew that it was safe to magic the chair over, not let him fall on his arse this time around because he'd be out cold."

"Why didn't you stop him from knocking himself out in the first place?"

"I _tried_!" Merlin halts near the table and flings himself down on a stool, burying his hands in his hair. "I told him to sniff it, Gaius, not stuff his stupid face with it. It's not my fault he's got cheese for brains where Gwen is concerned."

Gaius clucks his tongue. Merlin can't tell if it's in sympathy or disapproval, but he knows eventually Gaius will take pity on him and bring him a nice warm bowl of broth, some soft bread and…a book? Was there a book last time around?

It's nearly as fat as his forearm is long and looks better suited as a mounting block. Merlin tilts his head, trying to read the faded lettering on the spine: _Of Time and Prophecy_

"Er, what's this?"

"You've been under a lot of stress lately," Gaius says. "And I know you're worried about Gwen. We all are. Best thing for it, in my opinion, is supper then straight off to bed. But if it's answers you're after…"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps you'll find some in there. It's a fairly comprehensive collection of writings on the subject." He pats Merlin on the shoulder before leaving for his nightly rounds.

"Ugh."

Merlin flips through page after page as he downs his broth—useless twaddle about scrying and seers and diagrams of bits of rope twisted into funny shapes—thinking that, if nothing else, he could probably use his magic to levitate the thing and knock himself out with it.

He doesn't notice the way Gaius' water pail begins to tremble, the water within it roiling with bubbles despite the fact that it's set nowhere near the hearth.

* * *

Gwen's back in the morning. Unfortunately, so is Merlin's not-so-little problem.

Though perhaps it is somewhat fortunate, as it allows Merlin to time his running into Gwen round a corner so that the bruises on her wrists are plainly revealed. He soon has the whole sorry tale out of her—he recalls wasting half a day on this before—and is preparing for what promises to be either a madcap rescue or a suicide mission at some old fortress by the sea. He can't sense which yet, but it hardly matters. He's got a bad feeling about the whole thing. 

"Dresses!" he snaps when Arthur wonders aloud what excuse he should make to his father for leaving Camelot for a few days.

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur pauses halfway through pulling on his shirt. "Are you—"

"Fine silk," Merlin cuts in, tugging the brown cloth down over Arthur's exposed torso. He's got enough distractions at the moment. "From the markets in Dyfed. Tell him you lost a bet with Morgana and you promised to fetch it yourself for maximum humiliation."

Grinning, Arthur grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a little shake. "You know, Merlin, for an idiot you're—"

"A genius at times." Merlin ducks out of his grasp and sketches a bow. "Also very handsome, efficient and underpaid. Yes, sire, I know."

Arthur goes pink. "That's not what I was going to say." 

"No? Pity. I was so sure…" Merlin starts towards the door, but is distracted by a movement out of the corner of his eye. There, on the dresser. The water in Arthur's washbasin appears to be _moving_.

"Come along then, you impudent scamp." Arthur grabs Merlin by the back of his jacket and propels him towards the door. "I'm sure you'll want to see his face when I tell him."

* * *

Merlin tries to prevent Morgana from coming. He really does. The poor groomsman who has to find and re-saddle her horse can attest to that. He knows no good will come of her presence, but to be perfectly honest that may be less of a premonition than the general state of things these days.

Once it's clear that neither she, nor Arthur, will be dissuaded, he watches her like a hawk, tries to ignore Arthur's terrible attempts at flirting with Gwen, and does his level best to put this new power of his to good use. 

Yet, even when he alters his actions, he fails to improve the overall outcomes. Morgana still resists his attempts at reconciliation—then warning—and flings firewood at his feet. Arthur, ignoring all his hints at supper, still spills the beans about the secret tunnels beneath Fyrien's castle. And Merlin _still_ cannot bear leaving Arthur and Gwen unprotected as they sleep, so he watches Morgana slip off into the woods at night and silently fumes until her return.

Maybe, he thinks, this is all part of her plan. Maybe she's placed him under a curse somehow, and means to drive him mad. He's not sure exactly how that fits into this whole scheme of using Arthur's noble heart and fondness for Gwen to lure him into a trap, but Morgana's no fool. She could be working multiple schemes. After all, he's pretty sure she's the one putting holes in his waterskin and making the beanpot boil over.

* * *

The next day, Merlin resolves to up his game. Instead of conjuring a snake to frighten her horse—definitely amateur—he goes with a rampaging buck near a convenient bog. All that gets him, however, is Morgana with murder eyes and muddy trousers and time wasted tracking down her spooked horse.

By the time they make it to the castle, Merlin's frantic with worry. He knows they're walking into a trap, but short of revealing his secret or somehow forcing Morgana's hand in front of Arthur, there's nothing he can do—nothing save stick by Arthur's side and try his damnedest to make sure they come out of this alive.

Which they do. Just. It certainly helps that Merlin's magic _rages_ at the prospect of Arthur being burnt alive, and that Gwen's brother is more than handy with a sword.

On the way home, he and Elyan ride double. Merlin doesn't mind, exactly—he's exhausted, and Elyan is a warm and solid comfort at his back—but it means they often lag behind the others.

"Not to pry," Elyan says at one point, "but does this happen a lot?"

"What, the grand speeches?" Arthur's in the midst of one now, practically beaming as he goes on about Camelot's ideals. "Only when he's especially full of feelings. Or if we're likely to die. I've grown quite fond of them, actually."

"No, I—"

"Oh, right. The kidnappings, you mean?"

"Yes. But also the whole—" Elyan lifts a hand from Merlin's waist and gestures up ahead. "—prince and the king's ward haring off on rescue missions. For commoners. With no military escort."

"Ah, that. I wouldn't say it's an everyday occurrence, no." Morgana's leaning over in her saddle now, saying something to Gwen. Merlin urges their mount to pick up the pace so he can listen in. He'll also suggest they stop for fresh water soon, as his waterskin's developed another mysterious leak. "But it does happen more often than one might think."

Elyan chuckles. "And there I was thinking adventure could only be found far from home. Things truly have changed in Camelot."

* * *

Things have _not_ changed in Camelot. As in, it should be Monday, but it's not. It's Wednesday. Again. Somehow.

Merlin wakes in his second-best nightshirt to the smell of brewing dittany and pennyroyal. It is sunny outside. Gaius is in his blue robes and greets him with a cheery, "Morning, slug-a-bed. Don't forget Arthur's meant to breakfast with Uther today."

Merlin takes his usual meandering route, trying to convince himself this is all part of some elaborate prank. But if so, it is _very_ elaborate, for there are Dyllis and Peter in the scullery, exchanging some rather creative morning goodbyes as they had done on Wednesday. Cook is bickering with the eelmonger; peasants are already queuing up in the courtyard hoping to bring their grievances to the council; high above, Bronwyn and Tall Mary are kicking up a fearsome cloud of dust beating out bed hangings—all Wednesday things.

Wednesday's guard rotation is on duty outside the royal chambers, the remains of Tuesday's stew sits congealing on Arthur's desk and Arthur is, once again, sleeping in a manner that seems specifically designed to torture Merlin with indelicate thoughts.

Though that last, Merlin has to admit, isn't exclusive to Wednesdays.

Fighting back a hysterical laugh, Merlin strides over to the windows. "Rise and shine!" he calls out, yanking the drapes aside.

Arthur makes a noise of protest, squinting up at him from his mound of pillows. "Can't you think of anything new to say? Every morning it's the same thing."

"I _know_ ," Merlin whispers, then schools his face into a smile before he turns around. If he's destined for madness, he might as well have a bit of fun. "How about: morning handsome! On your feet, sweetmeat! Let's get some jelly in that belly! No? None of those? I'll just…"

He runs and ducks, as per usual, but this time it seems Arthur's too stunned to even pick up the cup.

"Did you just… _What_ did you just call me? Merlin!"

* * *

Merlin's definitely going mad. By his reckoning he's lived the same five days over _nine times_ now—with slight variations, but to similar ends—and no one around him has noticed a bloody thing.

If Morgana is behind it somehow, she's not letting on. She certainly doesn't seem to remember their previous trips to Fyrien's castle, falls for the sudden snake or charging buck—bee swarm, falling branch, sinkhole, bats, toxic swamp gas, you name it—every time, not that it makes any difference. She's either got ice in her veins and the best poker face in the Five Kingdoms or she, too, is oblivious that they've all been through this before.

Every time, Merlin goes from panicked worry to getting caught up in the fight for survival. Then, on the ride home from the fortress, he goes over every detail of the mission he can remember—anything that he did differently this time—so he can write it all down before he falls asleep Sunday night.

At Gwen's cottage, he shares a toast with the others before heading back to the castle. He prepares Arthur's bath and hangs around, ostensibly to turn down his bed, but mostly just admiring the way the firelight flatters his skin and making sure the bathwater doesn't get up to anything funny. 

Whatever the nature of this curse, it seems to make water behave in an unpredictable fashion. At least around Merlin. He keeps trying to ask Gaius about that, but they never get very far in their research between Merlin being gone and Gaius not remembering their previous discussions.

Once Arthur's safely tucked in bed, Merlin bids him goodnight, then lingers near the door, waiting for…

"Oh, and tell Leon he's in charge of morning training," Arthur says, yawning hugely. "I think I'll have a bit of a lie in. Then we can see about the forge for Elyan."

"Of course, sire." Sometimes said softly, sometimes with clenched jaw and tears threatening to spill because Merlin knows Arthur won't get his lie-in, nor Elyan his forge. 

Monday never comes.

* * *

On the tenth Wednesday morning, Merlin toys with the idea of kissing Arthur awake. Just a small one, right on the bridge of his nose.

Instead, he fetches Arthur's favourite hound from the kennels and leads it to his bed, lets it wake him with its slobbery tongue and thumping tail.

On the tenth Sunday evening, Merlin doesn't leave after Arthur's bath. Instead, he potters about doing quiet chores until he's certain Arthur's asleep. Then he goes to stand by Arthur's bedside. 

"I nearly kissed you today," he says. "I would kiss you every day, if I could. Would die for you, too. You're the best dollophead I know."

It's then that it comes to him, the one thing he hasn't tried. Perhaps the only way to break this curse is to take himself out of the equation.

* * *

"I trust you know why I've summoned you here?" The Cailleach's voice echoes off the walls of the great cavern. Fyrien can barely make her out through the mist rising from the surface of the water. He feels both hot and chilled through, which is singularly disconcerting, even to the dead.

"Yes, My Lady." 

"It ends, now."

"But—" 

" _Now,_ I say. This is the most egregious abuse of haunting privileges I've seen in a century. At least. I don't know how you snuck it past the Council of Shades. I've only allowed it to continue because the Fates intervened on your behalf, but their curiosity's been well-satisfied, and surely you've had your vengeance by now."

She's swum nearer now. Fyrien can see the outline of her head and shoulders, the smouldering hollows of her eyes. He kneels down on the rough stone.

"My Lady, you must believe me. It is not vengeance I seek. I—"

"You've a damn odd way of showing it." The Cailleach lifts her arms from the water, grey and steaming, and props herself up on the edge of the pool. "Being trapped in such a time knot is no joke, even for one such as Emrys. He leans evermore towards the Veil with each passing cycle, and it is nowhere near time for him to discover his immortality."

"I do not wish Emrys harm, I swear it! But I poured my blood and sweat into that castle, plus every piddling bit of magic I had. Traded priceless treasures to more powerful sorcerers for additional protections. It was meant to stand until the end of time itself, and he just skips in there and—" Fyrien shakes his fists. "—destroys it, like it was so much sawdust! I merely wished to know _why,_ My Lady, and perhaps seek reparations."

The Cailleach snorts, muttering something under her breath about male vanity. Then she points a finger at him.

"The why of it should have been obvious from the very first cycle—he's hardly going to let his beloved prince die when he can save him—so what's the holdup? And do stop grovelling like that. Stand up and make yourself useful. Fetch me that towel."

Fyrien does as he is bidden, grateful for a moment's reprieve. This is the part he's been dreading. 

"The, ah, reparations," he says as he hands over the towel. "Emrys and I have yet to come to an agreement."

"He is being difficult?" She laughs. "Well, no wonder. I expect you've been a nuisance."

Fyrien coughs and averts his eyes as the Cailleach heaves herself up out of the pool and secures the towel around her bosom.

"Master Fyrien, is there something you're not telling me?"

"The thing is…"

"Yes?"

"Emrys and I have not actually had a chance to…that is to say, I have not yet been able to—"

"Spit it out, Fifi!"

Fyrien jumps at the words hissed in his ear, the Cailleach's breath like burning ice. "I haven't made contact!"

"What?!" She rounds on him, her long hair whipping his face.

"I…may have overestimated my haunting abilities?"

"Oh, for—"

The next thing Fyrien knows he's being slung over the Cailleach's shoulder like a sack of grain and tossed into the pool.

"From the time I speak the words of crossing, you have one day in the waking world. Make this right, or I will personally see to it that you lose all your craft privileges and spend the rest of your afterlife as a shrieking skull!"

* * *

Merlin wakes in a fresh nightshirt to the smell of brown bread. It is raining outside. He can't remember the last time he woke in his own bed to the sound of rain. Cautiously, he slips out of bed and opens his door. 

No Gaius in his blue robes. No mounds of pennyroyal and dittany waiting their turn for the pot. Just a tidy workbench and there, on the table, a half-loaf of brown bread and a bit of honeycomb.

He's not entirely certain why this is so exciting, only knows that it is. He's cramming a thick slice of the bread in his mouth, eager to go see Arthur, when the outer door opens.

A very large, very _naked_ wet man stumbles into the room. He's bald on top, but is sporting some exuberant red bush both on his chin and between his legs. There's what appears to be eelgrass stuck in the former.

Merlin hastily chews and swallows as the man approaches. "Can I help you? Are you ill, or…?"

"I am dead," the man says. He drops down onto the stool across from Merlin and slaps it with his hand. "Come, we have much to discuss, and little time."

"Who _are_ you?"

"Fyrien of Gwynedd. You ruined my castle."

* * *

* * *


End file.
